


The Decay Of Yesterday

by KadeJaneStoker



Category: Hellboy (2019), Hellboy (Comics), Hellboy - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Just to be safe, Lot of slow burning, but worth it in the end, it's gonna be a roller coaster, keeping it mature cause I have no idea where this will go, more characters are gonna come later but for now I'll keep to those four, strap in boys girls and peeps alike, there's gonna be some stuff from the comics added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:28:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27983076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KadeJaneStoker/pseuds/KadeJaneStoker
Summary: Unfathomable circumstances take an amnesiac woman to a life of the unknown. Armed with unknown gifts and a fragmented past, Percy Gris finds herself being thrown into the dangers of the impending apocalypse at the hands of a psychotic plague-carrying sorceress.  Fortunately, she won't be alone in this matter, but who's to say it's a matter of time before everyone's at each other's throats? **UNDER EDITING**
Relationships: Ben Daimio/Original Character
Kudos: 2





	The Decay Of Yesterday

**Author's Note:**

> Alrighty, my first time writing fanfiction on here! And Hellboy was on my mind so I wrote this. This is essentially a work in progress as much of it is a bit out of everywhere as you'll read the chapter. I'm not partially happy with some of the characterizations but so far I'm happy with most of this word vomit. And in this chapter, there are only two bits of dialogue, but I hope you guys still like this. Depending on how much feedback this receives I'll do two of the following: 1, being to go back and revise this (I couldn't wait, I got excited) and once I finish said revisions, I'll start typing up the next couple of chapters (Of which I'm gonna go to the books upon the movie was based on so that way, I can somewhat extend what was touched upon in the movie). One more thing before we begin, I'm probably gonna leave a list of terms that may not be familiar.
> 
> Cambion: Is essentially a fancy term for what Hellboy is.

There was nothing within the senses. It was all a blur of darkness within the empty void. But she, yes she, was weightless within a dark sea of dreams. But then electricity awakened her nerves and the first thing she felt was her fists. Then it traveled all the way to her feet. She felt her eyelids, all of this was an awakening of electrical synapses creating a breathing machine. The machine awakened her spine and shook her ribs, resulting in the cataclysmic pumping of her heart. Such catatonic machinations all culminated within the first breath of air.

A shocking pull of the lungs forced oxygen and the first heartbeat to commence. As she opened her eyes, the woman was awake. But she awoke in a tight, closed space. Like a coffin. This sudden close space frightened her. She wanted out. This terrified her. She tried to scream, but her vocals were paralyzed. Paralyzed from so much of the questions that plagued her immediately.

What amplified her fears and questions was condensed into one simple thing: She remembered nothing. No answers could be scavenged from her mind, even with the fear. She frantically reaches out but space stops a few inches before she can stretch her arm fully. She hears voices muffled. She cannot comprehend whether they were the ones to place her in such a tomb. She knows she can’t stay for the adrenaline is her only decision making factor in the dance of fight or flight. The darkness before her is heavy, but she strains with everything, lurching over hoping to use her weight. Unbeknownst to her, the coffin had been standing upright, making this easier. 

Except when a coffin is upright and not supported, things could swing open with such ease that it could slam someone square in the face. Or when the lid had the tendency to fall flat down on whatever ground it stood on. The latter was the outcome that became the result of the ever-changing present. The sudden fall of the lid took the woman down with it, with no time to prepare her standing. The lid fell with a loud thud, and part of the coffin came spilling with a black inky substance that could only be described as some ichor. 

This ichor was on her hands, and it clung to her, like remnants of watercolors. The light of the new space forced her eyes shut, before slowly blinking them to adjust. The voices once muffled were now clear.

“What the fuck, is that a woman?!”

“That’s not fucking possible, the coffin was locked!”

She was in a room, one of the tiles and horrid lighting, with at least three men, as she stared back. All confused, and none were expecting this outcome either. She struggled to her feet, adrenaline still coursing strong. The first man was an old man with darkened grey hair and a light grey beard coming in. The second one, if he could be called that, was wearing an odd suit of some kind, a light grey in fabric and an odd helmet that to the woman, could only be described as a fishbowl. Yet his face was constantly hidden within a veil of white smoke. The third one blocked the door of her potential escape. A cambion whose skin was the color of humanity’s crimson blood and raven dark hair. He had two dark red numbs, an indication of where his horns would be. His eyes were the colors of fire and that fire terrified the woman so much that she raised her arms as a means of protection. She was hoping to keep the distanced spaced with the unknown ichor on her hands, but unfortunately, they moved more in the movement of a strike.

The ichor hid an unknown defense. Her fingers were long and pointed to the extent of claws, this was revealed in the light when she held them up. How sharp they were, like sharpened glass, to cut slices through a cambion’s face like softened butter all the way down to the very bone. It not only cuts to the bone, but it nearly gouges the cambion’s eyes out. He reels over in pain clutching the side of his face. From such defense sent the cambion twice her height onto his knees was all she needed to access the door pushing herself out and into the hallway. She almost stumbled again but this time she caught herself by crashing into the wall. She pushed herself, unable to catch her breath in such an unknown environment. Her bones ached but she couldn't stop, so she needed to get out.

In haste, she hurriedly looked down the left and right of the hallways, and based on who wasn’t running towards her, she took the left. Bare feet carried her down the concrete floor as her lungs burned. She hurried down various turns of the hall, and she hastened this pace as she heard the alarms ringing. 

The zigzagging eventually took her to some stairs at the end of a corridor. The woman made the mistake of looking back, and her view was met with the sight of many people armed in white. Her eyes widened and she turned her sight back to the corridor, a sign indicating a hazardous area in need of caution when treading down that. That is where she would go where the others could not. With one push she leaped over the tape, only to come crashing down, stumbling. But quickly she scrambled onto her feet and continued, until she rounded the corner and quickly hid into a room, closing the door and locked it. Immediately she ducked and stayed there until she couldn’t hear the footsteps anymore. Sighing she collapsed unto the cold tiled floor, panting for burning lungs and her aching legs, of which she was so grateful for them carrying her this far.

Between the breathing and the aching, the woman’s head hurt, as someone doused it with acid. In between every pang and breath, fragments of spoken words and seconds of scenes, this forced her eyes shut in response to this painful overload, draining her ears of any weight. However, when she tried to open them, all she was bestowed was the sight of darkness, colliding with bronze and gold kaleidoscopes. With no more than whimpers escaping her head, until all of it culminated with a disembodied voice ringing one word in her head: Perse...Percy? Such phonetics were lost within unknowing. What did that word mean? Was it her name? She liked it, Percy. Percy was her name now, at least until she remembered her own. 

As she had this realization, the pangs stopped to which she sighed with relief. When it didn’t feel like she’d die there on the floor, she slowly sat up and straightened herself, inspecting the surroundings she invited herself in. The room itself was completely white, the panels in the walls and even the ceilings were white as snow, but the lights were blue, turning the whole room a shade of light blue. But in the very middle of the room were tables, 3 of them to be exact, yet only 1 was occupied with a black body bag laid atop. Her fear was slowly being combined with curiosity now, and she grasped part of a countertop to pull herself up. Treading carefully, Percy approached the table, unaware she left prints of black ichor onto the floor. She stopped when she was at the head of the table with the zipper facing her. 

With delicate motions, her hands clasped over the zipper, and she pulled it down as far as she could until Percy was greeted by her first face of death.

Percy tilted her head. Were it not for the scars, the old woman would have assumed was asleep. Her eyes widened at the sight of the state of his mangled face. Part of his mouth had been sadistically slashed, revealing his jaw and exposed teeth. It followed all the way to his ear, torn apart and exposing the article. With jagged thin slices from his chin trailed down to his neck before taking a sharp diagonal turn across his chest. She should’ve been frightened by such a magnificent display of carnage. Screaming at the sight of a dead man ripped apart by an unknown spirit of carnage. She should’ve recoiled in disgust and regret of ever pulling apart the bag because of her naive curiosity.

She should’ve done all these things, yet for some reason, she was not inhibited by these rational impulses. She felt a pang of sadness and despair unfathomable, incomprehensible to her. If there was any rational way to describe it, it was as though there was a pull within her ribs digging to her heart, and ready to overload her throat with emotion. She didn’t understand why she could cry at the sight of mourning a life she never knew until this very inevitable moment. Her eyes softened, with her hands covered in the inky ichor, reached for his face. To a normal rational human, this wasn’t allowed without gloves. The thought of touching a dead corpse was horrifying. However, as some part of her was detached from what was right and wrong, she had an idea that part of her probably wasn’t normal. Human? She’d have to look in a mirror.

He was icy cold to the touch, stiff and unmoving. The ichor on her hands spilled unto his dead wounds as she caressed it. She dearly caressed him as though they were indeed intimate lovers, that this was the last time they would embrace in such an intimate manner away from the world one last time before the funeral of reconciliation began. There the lover’s body would be sealed into the earth, allowing the roots to feast on his flesh and bones until the end of time, with the devoted left behind to tend to the garden. Percy traced over his exposed ear, down to his jaw, chin, and chest where the carnage ended. She did this with her left hand, and the other ichor covered hand followed the direction of the muscles in his neck. All of this she did so tenderly, with apologies in her heart.

Perhaps they were indeed devoted to each other, but alas she couldn’t remember anything. Only the name Percy being screamed in her head. Perhaps that’s why she was here? Did something terrible happen that allowed her to be trapped in that stone coffin and him mangled on the table? So many questions were swarming her head that she didn’t notice the feeling of tiny beads gracing her hands. Looking down further, the sensation led to her grasping around the beads and upon lifting them up revealed they linked to metallic tags. They shined in the lighting of the morgue despite the dried blood. Foolishly, Percy tried to wipe them off with her ichor covered thumbs with moderate success. She gently took them off his neck and tried to hold them up toward the light.

But unbeknownst to her as studied his tags, hoping for some name, the ichor seeped into his exposed flesh, seeping and filling his wounds. They crash into the veins deep inside, all the way, filling his chest and mausoleum of bones where his lifeless heart was nestled inside. A pulse begins, as it forces the heart to breathe. Ben Daimio, a Captain in the U.S Marine Corps was dead. Was an indication that three days after his ravaged death. Was, meaning that in this very moment...Ben Daimio lived again.

His chest suddenly heaved in and then out as he took in a sharp breath of air. His lungs burned with dried blood, the taste of iron lingered in his throat. Adrenaline coursed through his bones as he sat up. Percy tried to scream as the fear finally caught her throat, all she could do was collapse on the floor scooting back, away from the table in authentic horror, she looked at her hands, a whimper came out of her distressed vocals. Meanwhile, Daimio felt like his guts were burning with nausea. At this moment he was Frankenstein’s horrid creature coming to life. The light burned and his body was trying to compensate for the cold shell it had become. His heart was a drum ready to burst in his bones. All the while trying to breathe the new air.

Something deep within was fundamentally changed, yet neither of them realized it. He was cold yet he felt the lingering traces of warmth from where the previous touch had lingered now slowly infecting his body. He too tried to say something, a question, when so many plagued him now. But the words were hoarse in his throat and instead blood spilled from his mouth. His cords burned, yet slowly the pain was diminishing, though he didn’t understand how or why. The trauma of this union had now stolen their voices. He tried to look around, to determine where he could be, but his eyes only fell upon dark decay the morgue was utilized for. His obsidian eyes then followed the sound to a woman on the ground.

Her hair was dark brown, messy, and layered as though someone took some scissors and had a heyday. Yet there were indications that shone in the silver highlights of her hair. Her eyes were the very color of roses and of crimson blood. A large leather bomber jacket covered her, but she wasn’t naked. She had a skirt and boots on. By any means, she would’ve had the appearance of a normal woman who just so happened to be caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. But there were three key things to indicate that she wasn’t: The black ink-like substance covering parts of her clothes, dripping down from her eyes, and coating her hands. The pointed elven-like ears protruding from her shaggy hair. And amidst the ink, there was a distinguishable black spiked ring around her neck

She was probably around his age, but she was terrified and he didn’t understand why. He didn’t understand how, what, when, where, and why. He only remembered teeth clamping down on his neck and claws tearing him apart. Now he’s awakened in a body bag in a morgue. For the first time, he is in the unknown territory of the unfathomable far from the standard missions for god and country, if there ever was a god in this chasm of the vastly wide world.

The woman before was terrified and for good reason. She saw what he didn’t. A mangled corpse of a man, with the very ichor on her hands being the catalyst for the resurrection. She knew that when she touched him, he rose from whatever grave the body bag served. The ichor was slowly filling the gaps of his jaw, his ear, and down his neck. The ichor stitches itself into his exposed flesh, merging with the dried blood and weaving itself into the muscles. Upon the first contact with his body, the ichor begins an unknown work filling in the gaps of his mouth. It covers his ear, and at this point, he feels something akin to the pattering of heavy raindrops during a severe thunderstorm. He reaches to touch the side of his face, feeling the ichor and pulling them away as he looks down at his body. On the surface, the ichor covered his wounds, but as the seconds passed, they slowly closed until the ichor disappeared. His missing ear was slowly reformed, being molded like clay until it 

Percy saw that but also saw the wounds on the side of the face closing up. She was scared beyond her mind and seeing a man being stitched up before her eyes helped no matters at all. Especially considering that the ichor came from her. This black ichor she had awoken to, was it part of her? Or did it come from the coffin she inhabited? She was terrified and it showed in her attempts to scoot back as far as she could away from him up until she was cornered by the cabinets. She wanted to scream so badly but it was all trapped in her throat, only coming in choked gasps.

Daimio was calm but deep down he too was terrified, upon realizing that the wounds once etched into his body were of the fatal kind. The kind that landed him here, rather than a hospital bed. No mathematics could even begin to explain. And from what Daimio was beginning to assess, neither did the woman. So instead, he turned to the body bag, and zipped in down further, giving him enough room to reposition himself so that his boots were touching the floor. He was still clad in his old uniform, silvers of blues and whites, but without his vest.

They both keep a distance from each other, devouring the noise and creating the damning silence. Until Ben decided the silence was enough after minutes. He was scared as she was, and they’re probably without answers. He knew he had to handle this situation delicately, or else suffer the awkwardness and unfathomable situation. Or at least try, socially awkward situations weren’t his biggest suite out of everything in his career. So slowly, he knelt unto the floor until their gazes were equal. At this point, the ichor was completely gone, leaving only thin healed scars and scarred tissue now slightly inflamed.

As she slowly watched him, but she shakily breathed, seeking to bury herself in her coat. And somehow the pull in her ribs lingered, the emotions diminishing and now she longer wished to cry now that the dead soldier lived again. He knew nothing of her, and he remembered everything up to that horrid attack. His childhood, his time as a cadet, all of. And not one of those times did he ever meet this woman. 

Likewise, with Percy, no strong emotions aside from the pulling were elicited, nor did any tender memories were summoned. Amnesia didn’t work like that and if it did, it would’ve saved her much more frustration in the future. Slowly but surely, she looked up to meet his gaze and her eyes softened. It was at that point that Ben offered her his hand, in the hope that he could help pull her back up and the two would stand up together. Instead, she looked down her claws, and then back at him. She assumed that he knew his tags were gone from his neck. So she presented the tags from her clawed blackened hands and slowly offered them to him instead. As she held them out, the ichor dripped onto the ground, the tags were now covered in it. Yet another peculiar thing happened. The ichor, slowly marbleized with the fleshy tone of her pale skin. Swirling all the way to her fingertips and shortening her claws until they’re now stubbed fingernails. The marbling continued until the flesh color overwhelmed the ichor and her hands were now a complete ichor. 

The flesh was completed when she gently placed the tags into his hand. The warmth from his scars was touched upon, was the very same warmth that electrified the very nerves of his hands. A soft clink could be heard within the damning silence, yet a gentle moment was shared between them that was just as memorable. 

Yet this silence was broken by the sudden banging, and Percy’s flight or fight mode had begun to kick in once more. Shadows swarmed the door, the doorknob rattling, voices demanding a way in. Percy cowered further away in fear, fear of the unknown possibility of being caught. Daimio, without regard for the mathematics or his military training, placed himself in between her and the distance of the door. 

However, the woman noticed from the corner of her eye, that there were two glass doors that led to the outside. Outside away from here and into the greater unknown. Yet Percy was being shielded by the living zombie, and prior to this had never met each other. Barely acquaintances, yet he was ready for whatever came through those doors. Unfortunately, Percy was so unsure of everything happening. She was scared beyond her comprehension, and this was amplified when a blood-red stone gauntlet punches through the door she had previously entered from.

The sound of the glass shattering was a bullet triggering the beginning of another triathlon that sent her scrambling on her feet and bolted to the door. Ben tried to grab her, but as one would with a ghost, it, unfortunately, resulted in losing her before he even knew her. She rammed her elbow and shoulder through the bigger and larger glass doors, she bounded towards the concrete ramp. She ran through the spring rain, splashing through large puddles.

She couldn’t look back, but at the same time, she wished she did. Perhaps then she could have seen the beloved zombie she had accidentally brought back to life. She cried for the unknown that she lost herself to, and she cried to free her bottled fears and emotions. tears streaming down her face, indistinguishable from the rain.

**Author's Note:**

> Congrats you made it to the end! I hope you enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing this. It was fun. As I said, there's a lot of stuff in here that needs could use a lot tougher love but at the same time I'm gonna try and continue this cause it's too much fun.
> 
> Hope you guys are having a wonderful morning/afternoon/evening wherever you guys are at and I'll see ya later!


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